


Catharsis

by Radioluminescence



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unethical Medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23928100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioluminescence/pseuds/Radioluminescence
Summary: A misstep upon his release from the quarantine room makes it impossible for Pharma to release the Genericons and blame Ambulon as planned. However, that doesn’t mean he still can’t get away with it, especially now that he has the opportunity to convince Ratchet that he’s Delphi’s saviour, instead.
Relationships: Pharma/Ratchet (Transformers)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When will I learn that I'm not good at writing characters who are smarter than I am: a lesson in trying to write robot anatomy through the eyes of a homicidal doctor!
> 
> I'm not as proud as this execution or story now that it's written, but hopefully, it makes more sense as the story progresses. I always thought Pharma had the brains and the ability to lie his way out of Delphi had he only done a few things differently, so this is an exploration of that. 
> 
> Warnings will be updated as the story progresses, but it doesn't get much more gruesome than this. I think it goes without saying that Pharma is an unreliable and tortured narrator who reads too much into things, and though he may see himself as a victim, he _did_ create a plague that killed a bunch of people. This story isn't meant to absolve him of that blame.

He sobs when he sees who’s on the other side of the glass.

He doesn’t believe it at first. His chronometer tells him it’s been five days since he was sealed inside of the quarantine room, but it’s felt a lot longer than that. His low-fuel level warning has been a constant message on his HUD, telling him to expect lethargy and hallucinations in big red glyphs. 

When Ratchet had shown up for the first time, he was as he is now, on the other side of the glass. After the initial surprise had worn off, Pharma briefly remembers entering a one-sided dialogue with him, shouting obscenities that were swallowed up by the room. His anger locked his body up into strange configurations, making him swollen and morbid. The ache from that overextension is still present, days later.

At that moment, all he could think of doing was making Ratchet hurt the same way he did. That Ratchet was a replica of the one he’d once worked alongside. It was the same body he’d once shared heat with, now made cumbersome with regrets and longing. The face was the same one he could see when he was curled up in his berth, trying to use Ratchet’s calm instruction to block out the whispers that followed him back to Delphi. Tarn’s words infected that version of Ratchet. A black, indomitable pit opened up where there was once respect and adoration.

Now, he tentatively places one hand up on the glass. His fingers don’t form fists; they spread out. He wants to touch him. He wants to know that this isn’t another lucid dream. It couldn’t be: this Ratchet is cracked. Broken. He’s worn and used, emoting in ways that are familiar, but also not. He’s unknown to Pharma’s imagination.

“Ratchet,” Pharma tries. His voice is hoarse. Systems are slowly coming back online, reassured by the presence of his old co-worker, who is fuel to the hungry sensors. They drink up the image of him.

When Ratchet says something back, his mouth opening just enough for him to know he’s saying Pharma’s name, he feels his internal systems bleat. 

Separated by glass, their hands touch for the first time in years.

 _Ratchet is here_ , he can feel his spark say as it clenches. He has to get out of this room. 

Ratchet turns away from him to converse with Ambulon, giving Pharma a second to compose himself. There are a lot of things he wants to say, feelings he can’t give a name to and hope he’s had to push down his intake and lock inside of his spark casing. He draws inspiration from one of his earlier rants as he retracts his laser scalpel out from his arm.

With surgical precision, he carves the words into his hand. The corner of his mouth twitches, threatening to make him smile. Ratchet always did like his jokes, so how about this?

_Your friend is upset._

If his palm were bigger, he might’ve included the _with you_ part. But this will suffice.

The glass is cool. The thermal shock rips through his hands, but he presses the fresh wound into it and wills it to burn. Beloved Ratchet, who cares so much about others that there’s no love left for himself, should know how much he’s hurt Pharma. He wants Ratchet to know and he wants it to injure him.

But what should be a moment of triumph is stolen from him by the moving shape in the distance. It creeps up behind Ratchet like a shadow. It looks like a reanimated corpse. Grey, black, and red. Rust red. It’s oozing rust like a leaky faucet. It splatters everywhere. 

Pharma looks, and Ratchet follows his gaze. 

Despite the glass providing a barrier, Pharma’s repair and maintenance protocols come back online in anticipation of a fight, followed by his internal logistics computer. They sharpen the image of Ratchet from its rose-tinted glow, bringing back images of Delphi and the rust that must be crawling out of the ward. The death toll has to be obscene. Has mass panic set in, forcing his team to use the most unconventional of methods to beam a call for help to another planet? Who’s left?

 _Ratchet is here,_ and that’s not necessarily a good thing. With his good bedside manner and talented hands also comes the good judge of character that could implicate him in a second. Pharma’s sentiments for him turn avian and fly away at the thought of it.

Pharma, however, is stuck in Delphi. The claustrophobia creeps back in; the walls glisten with condensation. There’s no more bright colours, just the sound of hands keying in the override code to his right. The doors respond with a clean swish.

Freedom is right there. Pharma runs towards it.

“Out you come!” Ratchet says, though it’s unnecessary. Pharma is out the door before he’s even finished speaking.

As his vents cycle fresh air, the smell of the virus creeps into his system. The putrid smell wafts down the hall, where the holding cells lie. Sonic and Boom will be there. There’s hope for salvaging this if he can grab himself an alibi and two mechs to blame the whole operation on. 

He tries to make a run for it, but the adrenaline rush siphons what’s left of his fuel reserves, causing the world to melt around him. He loses his balance as he turns, and it’s as if he deactivated his equilibrium chip. It would've led to him crashing to the floor, if Ratchet wasn’t there to steady him with one hand on his cockpit.

He doesn’t have to worry about the embarrassment of looking like a turbofox on ice; everyone’s looking at Ratchet’s friend, who’s corroding on the spot. One of his pipes has fallen to the ground and almost disintegrates on contact. The second mech Ratchet came with is cowering by the far wall as a mixture of coolant and energon, mixed into a magma-like colour, projectile spurts out from the infected patient’s face.

“--something non-fatal,” Ratchet yells, probably answering whatever question his companion was asking. He turns to look at Pharma. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he forces out.

He hears the sound of a transformation. Tires squeal on the floor’s red sap as the white mech takes shape in front of them. His transformation cog stammers, and the noise is just subtle enough for someone to believe it’s adjusting itself. He’s otherwise unharmed.

The same can’t be said for his friend: the dark gray mech has a sword driven into his back, buried to the hilt, and is now missing his left leg. A single step makes him groan. Hot energon pulses out of his face. He doesn’t get to take the second step, by then having collapsed into a pool of his own vital fluids.

Just like that.

It’s almost impressive.

Ambulon is the first of the group to react. Optics bulged in shock, he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around the victim’s midsection. Pharma winces, then remembers that probably over fifty mechs have passed through Ambulon’s care this cycle alone. He’s long since become a walking petri dish for the virus.

“Help me, Pharma!” says Ambulon. There’s that vague but heavy look in his optics, the look he has for Pharma alone.

Though the sight of the injury kicks his medic coding back online, fear overrides it. Pharma almost incriminates himself with his own hesitation.

 _Touch him,_ he tells himself. _Or they’ll know_. 

His hands shake. 

_Cure! Cure,_ he thinks. _You have the cure_.

He swallows the solvent in his mouth and jumps into the fray before Ratchet can champion another act of kindness at his expense.

“You take him.” He lifts the patient’s severed leg. “I’ve got the collateral.” 

Although he’s not operating at the same efficiency as he would normally, he at least remembers to pinch the wires on the limb so it can be preserved. It increases their chances of reattaching it to him later, instead of finding a replacement that they don’t have.

Their run to the ward is not so much a coordinated effort as it is a speedy one, and it’s something the patient will have to appreciate later when he’s still alive. Ratchet is right behind him, one hand readied as if he expects Pharma to fall once more. Pharma can feel the heat of it on his turbine and has to hold his wings in place so that they don’t flick back to dislodge it.

There’s a brief moment of rest as Ambulon keys in the passcode to the emergency ward, followed by an explosion of noise from inside as the ensemble of the life-support machines, air ventilation systems, and groaning from the dead combine into one loud pulse. The medibay is in a state of disarray like he’s never seen before. Frankly, he’s surprised that it’s still operational at this point. 

The smell hits him second. It’s acidic and vile, like he stepped in something organic. Not two steps into the room and he’s already got an idea of the infection’s spread. Death leans over their feeble and weak patients. It’s violent, it’s senseless, and it’s everywhere.

Ambulon places Ratchet’s friend down on an empty slab and steps back to unwind a nucleon line to hook him up to. First Aid has just finished resuscitating a patient and is cleaning up the workstation for them, sparing Pharma a single glance but saying nothing. Realizing he’s just been standing there, Pharma activates his leg thrusters for a quick second to send a blast of energy through his system. The world temporarily comes back into focus. 

Now that it’s been separated from the body, the extremity in his hands has stopped rusting away. Opting not to hand it off to his employees, he takes it to the back and begins deactivating the sensors. There isn’t a disinfected surface in the whole room, so he makes note of it on a diagnostics report and places it in the refrigeration unit for later.

That’s where Ambulon finds him, asking, “when can I schedule you for surgery?” with a level of subtlety that he’s become infamous for around here. 

Just the thought of conducting surgery now makes Pharma’s vision begin to blur again. His mind drifts to the emergency fuel reserves stored in the break room. He might have to take a quick break, or else run the chance of losing consciousness in front of his employees when his fuel injectors clog.

When he receives no answer, Ambulon takes a step closer to him. Their fields brush, and Pharma gets a brief glimpse of the dread that’s prickling beneath Ambulon’s plating.

“You okay?” He points to Pharma’s hands. Pharma looks down and sees them trembling. Clenching his fingers does not stop it.

It’s not like anyone’s going to criticize him for not being the pinnacle of medical infallibility in this crisis, but sympathy is the last thing he needs right now. 

Pharma’s voice grows fangs. “Get back to your post,” he snarls. “And stop worrying about me.”

He shoulders his way out of the room, holding his field close to himself and away from Ambulon. It’s one of the few things he has control over amid the barrage of internal commands requesting access or activation for trivial things. His medic coding sees a sea of bodies and wastes no time with alerting him to each injury, urging him to provide urgent medical care. 

Down aisle two, he’s greeted with the sight of a patient who has sockets where optics should be. He’s operating on backup energy reserves, clinging to life by his fingertips. An automatic scan misdiagnoses his condition as a rust infection; the cosmetic effects hiding the rot that’s underneath. This patient isn’t the only one. Though an experienced medic would know better simply by hearing the groaning of their internals, the appearance would fool some.

The equipment they have on Delphi is old and ineffective. First Aid and Ambulon had no means of remedying the mechs that came into their care. It’s no wonder that a quick glance at input data for their patients shows a spike in death rates unlike anything Delphi has ever seen before; a perfect storm of complications and coincidences that gave the medics nothing but their medical training and a time limit to work with.

They must’ve been terrified. Even now, he can see the toll it’s taken on them.

But it hasn’t stopped them from working. Ambulon has listened to him and moved on to help Ratchet. He shows a level of deference to the CMO that Pharma never got, trying to fill in the gaps as to play the most supportive role he can despite the halo of red paint chips that tell another, more frantic story.

“First Aid told you my theory, then? That medics are uniquely resistant to the effects of the virus?” he says to Ratchet. His voice is rimmed with static. It’s almost incomprehensible from where Pharma is standing.

Pharma bites down on his glossa to keep from correcting him. He finds himself a tray of energon swabs and uses them as his entrance to the conversation.

Ratchet keeps his head down, holding the patient’s hands in his own like it’s his lifeline. “All I know is that this Autobot is scared,” he says. “I’m just pleased that my hands are still good for _something_.” 

That sound of defeat is new for Ratchet. Pharma’s been there when operations failed and their patient gets sent to the morgue instead of the Phase II recovery room. All medics brush with death at some point, but to hear him sound like this while the patient is still alive and beneath him?

He doesn’t really know what to feel.

To save himself the trouble of solving it, Pharma forces himself to look away. “Ambulon. You’re saying neither you nor First Aid have contracted the virus?” he asks.

Ambulon’s still twitching from their last conversation when he answers him. “We take our internal temperature every hour and check our optics. The crying, which is the first symptom we see patients develop, hasn’t happened to either of us, and it’s been five days.”

“Doesn’t mean you aren’t infected.”

“If I’m honest, I think it’s just a matter of immunity.”

“Right.” He’s willing to let him believe that; it doesn’t pose any danger to him. “But I’m going to go off on the assumption you’re both sick. How often have you been leaving the ward?”

“We haven’t,” First Aid interjects, “except to recharge.”

“What about the security team? Who contacted Ratchet?”

“Tracer’s over there.” First Aid points to his right. “The others burnt out about three days ago. They didn’t respond to treatment.”

Pharma flexes his fingers. He lowers his wings on purpose. “I see. Then I suppose it doesn’t make that big of a difference if I put the facility under lockdown now.”

It occurred to him before and makes the most sense now. He can monitor Ambulon and First Aid closer and simultaneously prevent Ratchet’s group from leaving with any information they've gleaned.

“What does that mean for us?” Ambulon asks.

“No one leaves the ward without my permission. I want everything run by me first. And none of _you_ should be--” He turns on Ratchet’s second companion, the white speedster, but forgets what he was going to say at the sight of him weeping streaks of rust. 

The mech doesn’t acknowledge Pharma or the shocked expression on his face. He’s watching Ratchet, trying to edge into his field of view without coming too close. 

“Ratchet?” he says, voice shaking. “I need to talk to you.”

“Stay back!” Ratchet responds, holding one hand up. “You might get infected.”

The mech’s audials twitch and then lower.

“I think it’s a bit late for that,” he says slowly. Any false bravado in his voice disappears when Ratchet turns to look at him. “Pipes must’ve sprayed me. I’m sorry.”

Oh, if only Pharma could forget he saw that sad look on Ratchet’s face. It’s not that horrible self-pitying look he’s found on one too many medical practitioners who only see their own failure looking back at them. Ratchet’s grief is the opposite. It’s devastating to see.

And it’s what Pharma _wanted_ to see, back in the quarantine room. Yet, these pleasures are reserved for a complete stranger, and not his life-long partner, the one mech who’s been by his side for longer than anyone else.

Ratchet says the name “Drift” under his breath as he places a hand on Drift’s arm. The empty gesture is just that: empty. 

Drift hangs his head, cupping his face in both hands. Pharma can see him trying to get his systems to cooperate as he coughs up rusted flakes of what used to be the lining of his intake manifolds. Without coolant or proper intervention, his internal organs will be next. It looks and sounds painful; he can’t fault Ratchet for having such an intense reaction.

But any pity Pharma has for his condition is swept away by the sight of Ratchet moving him to an unused slab, one that’s stained red from the last casualty. The lack of sanitation, what would once be a large demerit for his employees, now indicates the extent of their desperation. And they aren’t the only ones: Drift is becoming more frantic. He’s got both arms out, fingers twitching as he reaches for Ratchet.

Pharma’s not eavesdropping. It just so happens that he’s able to pick out Drift’s rasp from the ambient sound of pumps and groans. At the first mention of Rodion, his spark sinks.

Rodion. The Dead-End. Ratchet’s clinic.

Of course they’d have some emotional backstory, and of course Ratchet has nothing but reassuring words for Drift in light of it. He’s trying to comfort Drift using nothing but his presence and a few one-liners that they feed those on the verge of shut down. Pharma would assume they’d have the opposite effect, but Drift’s blind trust in Ratchet must make him ignore the bright neon warning signs that are flashing over his head and saying, _“you’re next.”_

When watching the intimate affair becomes too much, he leaves the patients in the care of Ambulon and steps away to refuel. It’s not on anyone’s recommendation, though he can see the concern in his ward manager’s optics when Pharma has to lean on the side of a circuit slab to collect his bearings as he’s on his way out. There’s going to be a lot of damage control to do after this, for both his image and the execution of his plan. Luckily, everyone’s much too concerned with their new arrivals to be watching what he’s doing. 

Maybe a bit too concerned. 

It’s probably Tarn’s influence, but seeing Ratchet and Drift together makes the exhaust from his shoulder vents burn fiery-hot. He doesn’t like the foul person it turns him into, though he must admit that imagining Drift’s immediate removal from the medibay puts him at peace.

Those thoughts will horrify him in a minute, but it’s good medicine right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of continuity, I’m just going to list when and where I depart from canon in this chapter!  
> \- Pharma doesn’t make it to the holding cells. Instead, he helps Pipes, which alleviates some suspicion and puts him in the ward with the others.  
> \- Thus, the Genericons don’t attack. Pharma doesn’t have to blame Ambulon for their escape and their transformation cogs aren’t discovered by First Aid.  
> \- Without an inciting incident, there’s no case to build against Pharma.


	2. Chapter 2

Delphi has always been the one place that Ratchet could never touch.

Though he exists in the strict medical protocols that Pharma inherited—the acceptable percentages for sanitation, the alphabetical ordering of files, the scrawny curves of Pharma’s penmanship when he signs his diagnosis—and the few data slugs he keeps in an office drawer, he was never tangible. Pharma did not have to answer to him. Everything was run under his supervision, to his specifications. This was his world, by his own design.

Ambulon and First Aid know this; even now, they practice how Pharma likes his medical instruments ordered and support him when he needs to monitor a patient’s vitals or clear them for transport. A brief check of the records in his absence reveals a few holes, but his employees otherwise upheld his standards in spite of everything they had to endure. Threatened with dismissal on more than one occasion, they know better than to disobey his orders.

Now, Ratchet is here. There are a few bumped shoulders and huffs when equipment has been moved out of its usual place but relatively speaking, it doesn’t take them much time to get used to working alongside him. And they defer to his authority now.

If Pharma didn’t have five hundred other things to worry about, he would have to have a quick word with them both. As is, he’s working under a microscope. No personal space means they can pick up the nervous energy in his field, and he knows they’re already suspicious about why he’d been in the quarantine wing to begin with. There are things he can’t explain away without looking incompetent or otherwise wrong.

His pride might have to take a few blows; before his reputation and face do, that is.

Meanwhile, Ratchet hasn’t said more than a few words to him since his release from the quarantine room. Even now, he doesn’t look as though he’s in a hurry to come over and put them back on speaking terms. He’s content to keep working toward burnout before he’d ever give Pharma the pleasure of knowing he was thinking about him.

It’s maddening. They’ve known each other for too long for him to give Pharma the cold shoulder now, when he needs him the most.

Pharma gets tired of looking over his shoulder before his joints do. It takes him a few tries, but he eventually finds the excuse to join Ratchet, where he’s just finished extracting a few flakes swallowed by a patient. Said rust flakes had cut the patient’s internal throat cables, causing further injury. It was supposed to be the next thing on Pharma to-do list, before he was pulled away to help with an unresponsive patient on aisle five.

Ratchet is wiping his scalpel down with a disinfectant wipe. He says nothing when Pharma moves to his side, bringing up the patient’s file to update their repair log.

“Funny how we always reunite during the most absurd of circumstances,” Pharma says, casually.

Without looking up, Ratchet answers. “Forgive me for not finding a situation of this calibre funny, Pharma.”

Pharma’s face relapses into a frown. “Of course not,” he says, darkly.

Ratchet has acquired himself a syringe and vial of enriched coolant, which he’s trying to load in front of him. It’d normally be a simple process, but Ratchet appears to struggle with it. His hands shake so often that it’s become impossible to sink the needle head into it. 

Knowing the pain from the infection is only worsening with each passing moment, Pharma assumes action. He shoulders Ratchet aside.

“Move.”

“Pharma--”

“Look, I don’t know what’s happening to you, but move. I’ll do it.” He swipes both instruments from Ratchet’s hand without added explanation. 

He doesn’t have to imagine the look on the medic’s face right now. He must be  _ furious _ . Pharma’s past caring. He’s only reciprocating the welcome he’s been shown. 

He presses the needle into the patient with more force than necessary, finger jamming the plunger until the barrel empties. He watches the liquid move through the patients’ lines and resists the urge to apply more pressure.

Likely out of embarrassment, Ratchet moves away from him. He oversees Drift and the faders, all of whom are in varying states of degradation as their internal organs begin to shut down. Ambulon’s attempts at resuscitating them have not been successful. Overall, the emergency ward is populous with groaning. Even the long-term patients manage to scream, thanks to their life monitors.

Patients keep fading and there’s nothing he can do with the few quick-fix solutions they have on hand. They don’t need energon lines and boosters, they need the cure that’s in Pharma’s office. 

And looking at this place reproduce the misery he’s felt for years, he’s not seeing much of a reason to save it.

Any hope that was replenished by the appearance of Ratchet is slowly being sucked out of the room, taking their energy with it. First Aid is a good example: once the most active presence in the ward, he now stands with his back to Pharma. He’s positioned his body to make it look as though he’s leaning over a supply shelf, looking for something. It would be more convincing if the shelf wasn’t cleared of its contents.

Pharma walks over, taking note of the exhaustion that saturated the nurse’s red paint job into a tone identical to that of the rust’s, making it seem as though he’s being consumed by internal fluid and infection.

He thinks about him rotting away. Reduced to nothing. The visor that once watched him dims to black.

Lost in thought, he grabs First Aid hard enough to almost warp the protective plating that cases his shoulder. First Aid yelps, drawing optics to them.

“You’re off-duty, nurse. Go recharge, we can take it from here,” Pharma says, looking around to make sure neither Ambulon or Ratchet heard. Both look to be preoccupied with other tasks.

“What?”

“Do you need your receptors checked? You’ve been in here the entire cycle without rest. Go sit down before you collapse where you’re standing.”

“We’ve had five new arrivals this cycle, sir. I have files to update.”

“Ratchet and Ambulon will be here. You’re no use to us if you’re run into the ground and I refuse to have a misdiagnosis or incident on this floor because you’re not taking care of yourself.”

A long pause ensues. Pharma resists the urge to flick his wings.

“Fine,” the nurse says. “Thank you.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take that tone of voice with me, and you’re welcome.”

First Aid doesn’t take the cue to leave. He narrows the visual feed on his visor to give the appearance that he’s squinting.

“Are you feeling okay, Pharma?”

Pharma’s shoulders collect his tension. “What kind of question is that? We’re drowning in patients, the virus is spreading without any signs of stopping, and my nurse is spending his time questioning me instead of refuelling. How do you think I feel?”

“Fine, it was a stupid question.”

His tone should worry him, though he’s gone before Pharma can find a way to respond that doesn’t involve an insult or two. First Aid bumps Ambulon as he passes him on his way out the main doors. His feet drag.

Ambulon keeps looking over his shoulder at Pharma, enough to be annoying. It’s ironic that he’s moving a lot slower now and not when he was practically wearing medical scanners and spare equipment earlier. Pharma turns his helm and waits for him to try again, meeting his eye-line.

“What.”

“What did you say to First Aid?” Ambulon rolls his foot. 

Pharma, for the life of him, can’t decide if his newfound bravery is because of the virus or the presence of Ratchet.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Ambulon opens his mouth. Pharma beats him to it.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to pester me now too.”

Ambulon forces his plating to lie flat, though Pharma can see the engorged circuitry beneath that betrays his emotion. “I wasn’t. I was just going to say that I need the key card to unlock storage. We’re running low on thermal blankets.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The key card? In your subspace? You took it with you.”

A quick internal scan reveals the card. Normally an occupant of a locked drawer they could all access, he removed all but one and made himself the only authorized personnel to hold it. With a sigh, he produces it for Ambulon and then departs to update patient logs before his employee can squeeze more questions in.

Dogfight and Backstreet are stable. He can’t pump any more fluid into Tracer’s frame without overloading his system. Though there’s always something to do, nothing keeps him occupied for long.

He turns an overhead light on to examine Tailings, who’s taken a turn for the worst.  The dispersants that were previously bubbling in his optical sockets have crusted into a thick paste. He has to brush the flakes away in order to shine his ophthalmoscope into it. The internal damage doesn’t look to be stopping, only marginally slowed by their efforts.

Tailings tries to speak, but all he can spit out is fuel. Pharma sees his throat cables contract in, wet with grease that oozes out every time he tries to intake. He places one hand down on his chassis to keep him in place, but can’t think of a solution that won’t eat into their already scarce medical supply.

He turns his head on a whim, coming to face with a window.  Outside, the world is black. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. It’s only snow for miles; not the white, puffy kind either. From sight alone he can tell it's the wet type, the kind that sticks to your wings when you fly.

The energy in his system falls into itself and drives up the charge. Now’s about the time he would take his break and do a few dives over the communications tower to increase the burn rate of his fuel. The fact that it’s not possible puts him in a worse mood. He’d rather be out there, in the stiff and stony winter, than trapped inside as he is now.

He looks for Ratchet and finds him by one of the unused repair slabs. The beam of light above him creates a halo. Grievances aside, it’s nice to see him in his element. It’s a welcome reminder of simpler times.

The thoughts of flying and Ratchet combine, bringing back memories of his youth. One, in particular, is vivid: the time when he flew celebratory circles above the academy upon the completion of the last exam. Seeing Ratchet down below, a matching smile on his face, made his maneuvers complicate into twirls that only years of experience could grant. Though not perfected, the offer stood.

But Ratchet was not a flight frame, he couldn’t have possibly come to the same conclusion on his own. He offered his own congratulations, taking Pharma out for a drink, and that was that.

He remembers loving when he could fly for Ratchet. Even if the older medic could never understand the true meaning behind the dives and flips, the confessional seal meant that Pharma could, in one way, communicate the awe that made his spark burn bright.

Now, he releases hot air from his vents, stretching his wings out as far as they can go and then angling them diagonally as he would in flight. The use, albeit short, helps satisfy the urge to take off. There will be no flying for some time, and especially not for Ratchet.

Ratchet, who currently has one hand down on the desk, the circuits exposed to the air. The other is poking around inside with a scalpel. He curses softly, when it appears he touches a sensitive groove.

Intrigued, Pharma walks closer. Ratchet’s just about to close himself back up when Pharma grabs the free hand, yanking it from him. 

“What are you—”

There’s mild inflammation. The fingers are much harder to spread than they should and he can see swelling at the joint ends. The cables by Ratchet’s wrist have enlarged. Which could only mean--

“Advanced form fatigue,” Pharma says. “Interesting.”

Ratchet takes his hand back, holding it close to his chest. “Yes,” he says slowly. Pharma can hear the hiss of air being released as Ratchet manually seals himself back up.

“Since when?”

“Since—I don’t know. A few years before the resettlement of Cybertron. I wasn’t keeping track; had more important things to be doing.”

“You should have. It’s preventable.”

“I didn’t ask for a lecture, Pharma.”

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs. “Maybe I can help. I’ve diagnosed similar cases for mechs who spend all day in the mines. We’ve found solutions.”

“I think your priorities are better set in helping to cure these patients.”

“Do you think so? Answer me honestly: with no cure and the fatality rate sitting at an exact one-hundred-percent, what sense is there in fighting to save Delphi?”

Ratchet stares at him.

“And no, I’m not being facetious,” Pharma continues. “I’m looking at our odds of survival. The longer we wait here, the greater the odds that the D.J.D pays us a visit. They’ve been circling this facility for some time. It wouldn’t surprise me if this is their doing.”

“You know what my answer is going to be. I don’t know why you bothered asking.”

Pharma steps closer, entering Ratchet’s warm and loving field. His spark throbs in its casing. “Because I want to hear it from you. Say it’s worth saving and I’ll try my best, but I don’t want to be held responsible if all four of us die a miserable death.”

Ratchet drops both of his hands. The look on his face is unimaginably harsh. “I never took you for a bitter cynic.”

In defence, he laughs. “Ratchet,” he says, trying to hold back a humourless smile that would no doubt be interpreted the wrong way, “look around you: I’ve failed Delphi. I could stay the few extra days and wait for everyone I know to die around me, but if it’s true that medics are immunized against the virus then I want to use that knowledge to guarantee that  _ we _ survive, so that we can save more lives later on.”

“Sacrificing lives now for  _ later on _ ,” he uses finger quotes, “is paradoxical.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t know the wrath of someone like Tarn. If this really is his doing, I don’t want to be here when he comes to finish the job. I don’t want to subject you to that.”

His field enlarges, pushing invisible but weighty emotions toward Ratchet: his trust in him. His respect. For his fear, he withholds, leaving a pocket of empty space.

None of it shows on Ratchet’s face. “You wanted my opinion? It’s still the same. You’re smart enough, you’ve got to have some lead on what’s causing this. Your mortality rates have been on the rise for months now. Surely this isn’t some unrelated incident.”

Pharma shoves down the panic that’s threatening to climb out of his throat. He can’t wonder how Ratchet got that information; all he can do is adapt.

His wings flare out, making him surpass Ratchet’s height. “We’ve had recent waves of nucleon poisoning that ran concurrently with Decepticon attacks. The latter have become more frequent now that the war is over and, thanks to the neglect of High Command, we just don’t have the supplies necessary to deal with either, let alone both at the same time.”

The lies flow like high-grade. It’s almost too easy.

“Nucleon poisoning, you say?” Ratchet scratches his chin. “But the miners have been exposed to nucleon for years. Why’s it just causing problems now?”

“They’ve dug themselves a new network of tunnels to make up for supply shortages, or so I’m told. It's also been said that not all safety precautions have been followed.”

“Which ones? Tunnels, I mean,” Ratchet clarifies. 

“E-97 and E-98.”

“Shut those down then. We need to contain the spread.”

“Already done. I sent the bulletin out earlier this shift.”

“Good.” Ratchet nods to himself. “I’m trying to think about long-term nucleon exposure. I know it inhibits transformation and leads to paralysis. Oh, and mode-locking. But none of those symptoms are present here.”

Pharma ignores the pings on his CPU that tell him he’s locking up. “It sounds like you’re thinking of the transformation virus. That hasn’t made its rounds in centuries.”

“True, but it’s a starting point. Luckily, the  _ Lost Light _ has a few scientists on board.” He pauses. “Well, a few scientists and a liability or two. I’m sure we could arrange some way of getting the information to them.”

The thought of it pricks him.

“Information about the virus?”

Ratchet continues. “It’s a better investment of our time to focus on coming up with some sort of cure--or at least a short term solution. Then at least the recently infected still have a chance.”

Ah. The recently infected. Ratchet isn’t subtle.

Pharma overrides the instinctual command to retract his plating inward, doing the opposite before he can even think of a reply. Air brushes through the exposed wiring. He less resembles a snivelling coward.

He rolls one hand out. “Well, as eager as I am to get a cure, the comms. are still down and the quickest way to ensure your whole ship gets infected is to send someone over there.”

“Distant in-person communication is still an option.”

“Sure, but before we throw caution to the wind, why not let me help?” Pharma steps closer. “In lieu of inbound shipments, I’ve had to develop cures for diseases so rare they don’t have an entry on Autopedia. I’m sure if I had time, I could find something.”

“The best help you can be is to work by my side, here. We need your hands more than ever.”

The offer is ripe. He should take it. He should savour the chance to work with Ratchet again, as his colleague and most trusted friend. Under these circumstances, he’s the only one who could keep up; the last bastion of resistance against the likes of both the virus and the very nature of the Decepticon Justice Division itself.

However, he has the future to attend to. There will be plenty more chances yet to come, so long as he keeps his wits about him.

Using his outstretched hand, he catches Ratchet’s shoulder in a firm grip. “They have you. If it’s possible help won’t come, then we have to plan for that contingency. At least let me try.”

He holds the unwavering look as Ratchet searches his face for clues. Inwardly, the pressure is enough to have him shaking in his struts. The already piqued charge inside of him reaches a boiling point.

“You said patients have  _ recently _ been dying from nucleon poisoning? Would it be possible to perform an autopsy on them?” asks Ratchet.

“I could. Their bodies would still be in the morgue. I could go right now.”

Ratchet looks nothing short of genuinely concerned when he touches Pharma next. It’s either that, or meant to be patronizing. It almost feels like it, watching him now.

“Look,” starts Ratchet, “I trust that you know what you’re doing, but I’m not going to be able to save these patients if something happens to you. If I can’t at least urge you to reconsider, then may I suggest you send Ambulon or First Aid instead?”

“First Aid is off his shift, and Ambulon’s down in storage. If it’s the patients you’re concerned about, they’ll be close by if things go south. Otherwise, I don’t want to disturb them.”

“I won’t be able to stop you, will I?” At the sight of Pharma’s nod, Ratchet can only sigh. “Okay. Just hurry back soon. I don’t know how much time we have.” 

He’s looking out at the sea of patients. Those that can’t be powered even by a nucleon feed are already a lost hope. Pharma would be surprised if the gray friend he came with is alive by morning.

“Will do.”

He hurries out the door, but takes his time passing the stairs in the foyer. The morgue is buried underneath the earth, becoming an insulator that lets them save power on refrigeration. During his descent, the stench of death rises up to meet him. It grabs onto him with its tiny hooks, ensuring that he’s looking forward as he types in his clearance code and opens the door.

If he thought the emergency ward was full, it’s nothing compared to the morgue. He’s been deployed on the field and he’s seen the casualties of war when they’re still hot from the blast that’s sheared half of their face-off, but the sheer magnitude of the bodies here makes him take a step back.

He sees a mounted wall of corpses, so plentiful they cannot arrange rites or funerals for any of them. They’ve run out of sheets to cover bodies with, leaving them exposed to the air. Their grey plating is sore on the optics. He cannot rinse himself of the chill that invades his body, some of it real, some imagined.

Denying the request to purge his tanks, he brings out his scalpel and creates a deep incision into the closest body’s armour. It falls apart without any resistance. The oxidation process causes bouts of red fog to rise up, with tiny particles skittering across the innards like scraplets. With one arm, he reaches down into the cavity and circles the casing where the patient’s transformation cog lies in disuse. It’s much easier to retrieve it than in previous attempts.

The cog is nothing more than a blackened lump of coal in his hands, but it’s pretty damning evidence nonetheless. He doesn’t even need to glance at his reference notes to talk about the operating temperature being exceeded or the coolant systems failing to engage when the virus was activated. The slow but tumultuous process of rusting away begins here; once the cog is ceased inoperable, the spark and brain module experience gradual shutdown.

He comes up with a brief list of consistent findings: the patients’ midsections were all operating at abnormally high temperatures when they died, the engine oil coolants biodegrading, the frames all engaged in a forced cooldown sequence that was unable to save the inner windings from wasting away. All of his observations point to the transformation cogs as the source of the infection, but lack evidence to suggest that the act of transforming is the catalyst for the chemical reaction. 

It’s enough to start preliminary treatment, but not enough to deduce a claim with. That’s for him to discover. Later. For now, he must portion the information that gets out. Discover too much too soon, and risk drawing suspicion. Wait, and his reputation drains out from underneath him.

He waits in the morgue long enough for it to be plausible that he was at work and not trying to patch together his explanation of events. The whole time, his fingers are digging into the gaps of his plating. He’s torn between a duty to himself, and the nagging fear that while left unattended, Ratchet will have found some way to incapacitate himself. Every second he waits here is another Ratchet could use to transform. And then it would truly be over.

He tells himself it won’t, because he’ll be there. And Ratchet won’t just be impressed with his efforts this time.

But in order to do all that, he must be patient. So he waits.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://amaltheeia.tumblr.com/)! I promise I'm not that scary and I'm looking to make some new friends now that I'm back in the fandom. Comments and casual conversation are _always_ welcome. ♥


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